Interphase
by The Freelancer Collaboration
Summary: A companion series of one-shots to our Project Freelancer Saga, featuring a range of moments and tales, from the wacky, the romantic, the depressing, the action-filled and the sensational. Written by a variety of writers, and featuring a vast range of characters, ships, drabbles, occasional crossovers, prompt responses etc.
1. My New Obsession

**(A/N) Hey guys, NicKenny speaking, here to launch our latest fic! This one, Interphase, will consist of a variety of one-shots written by the writers of The Freelancer Collaboration, through the various characters which appear in our Project Freelancer Saga series, which currently include Phase One: Genesis, and Phase Two: Betrayal. This opening one-shot, from Arkansas' point of view and, strangely enough, has been written by the fabulous WargishBoromirFan, rather than myself!**

**Know you'll enjoy this! **

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**My New Obsession**

**Agent Arkansas**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

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"_I went to a fight the other night, and a hockey game broke out_." ― Rodney Dangerfield

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One of the first things Arkansas had discovered about his new roommate was that, at least while in the right mood and given the right topic, Georgia could be a consummate researcher. Another was that the shorter man hated to "make Ark feel left out," and so he had been ignoring the Grifball factoids bounced his direction with thinner and thinner layers of sarcasm.

"...And the pro league ain't just limited to Earth; there're teams from as far out as Haven that I've come across so far; wanna see if there're any from your hometown?" Georgia leaned backwards from the data-pad he'd been furiously scanning, offering brief upside-down eye contact before Ark returned to his own reading. None of it was the links Georgia had sent him within the past hour, though they glutted his inbox.

Ark's lips twisted into something that might be mistaken for a grin. "Trust me, I know there weren't any local teams. We didn't have the equipment." Or the standing buildings. Or the living people.

"Well, you went to school closer to the inner colonies, right? Some kinda fancy military academy?" Ark shrugged. They weren't supposed to be talking about their pasts. He didn't want to talk about his past. "Surely there oughta've been some sorta intramural there, at least. Probably was one at Tech, too, but I never paid it any attention between the broomball and battle-bot ads." Georgia offered an airy, careless wave as he switched to another video on his data-pad. "Kinda wish I'd given more things a second look, now, but I grew up with football and figured I could play that pretty well, plus, well, you probably had a tougher drill sergeant than our ROTC guys; you know what that was like and Tech wasn't even that serious a program - oh hell, the drownproofing course was pretty damn medieval, but they figured buncha engineers would be goin' for the nice cushy pencil-pushin' desk jobs, military grants 'stead o' frontline work, but where's the fun in that, right?"

"Right." Fun. Georgia had joined Project Freelancer for fun. Maine and Penn had tried to kill each other and Alaska talked to walls, but Arkansas had gotten the crazy one for a roommate. Just remember why you're here, he reminded himself. A meeting of like minds would have been nice, but that was not the goal.

"But may as well check out the minor leagues; see what the spirit looks like without all the merchandising; that's what I can't be bothered with 'bout pro football - you don't get to just see the players play unless you can afford stadium tickets, and when are the likes o' us ever able to even predict when we'll be in town for a game and... huh. Ark?" He'd been letting his roommate's voice wash over him like an excitable but inconsequential tide when Georgia suddenly silenced himself, staring at the latest search result to pop up on his data-pad in near-perfect stillness.

Ark offered him a half-curious "hmm?" out of courtesy, not quite sure whether or not he really wanted to know what had caught Georgia's attention.

Georgia turned in his chair, stood, and brought his data-pad over to Ark. "Even if you look at nothin' else about Grifball, look at this."

There was a video embedded in the article, titled something about "Minor League Game, Major League Riot." It was paused on the image of a surging crowd wading in around a handful of armoured Grifball players, only one or two of them still armed. Many of their weapons had ended up in the hands of rowdy sports fans, including a tall blonde woman snatching away a hammer from some poor unlucky sod on the blue team. Ark hit the play button, Georgia leaning over his shoulder as they watched her deck the player Georgia later identified as the "hybrid" twice with the hefty, shockwave-inducing mallet before another eerily familiar tall blond male pulled it out of her hands and dragged her off the injured player. There might have been some explanation for her actions amidst the noise of the swarming madness, but what audio wasn't overshadowed by other cries had been censored by the broadcasters.

Ark himself had no words. After a long, thoughtful silence and a second viewing, all Georgia offered was a breathless, "I think... I think this might possibly be love."

"And I thought football hooligans were nuts," Arkansas muttered to himself. Later research turned up that some heiress local to the teams featured in Georgia's video had gotten herself a permanent ban from their league, no explanation given as to why, though rumours circled that it had cost the family a pretty penny to keep the minor league quiet. Maybe Georgia's research could be interesting, after all.


	2. Anniversary

**(A/N) Hey guys, time for our second one-shot! Just a quick not to let you all know that we're currently looking for applications for Agent Texas, and those interested can submit an application form on our forum! Another quick note, from Mina, that the song in this one-shot is "Let Me Go" by Avril Lavigne!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Anniversary**

**Agent Colorado**

**Written by Minaethiel**

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"_In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."_ – J.R.R. Tolkein

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_"It's Blake… he's… he's dead."_

I stared down with wide eyes at the picture of my younger brother. His blonde hair was tousled in the sunlight, and his green eyes – exactly like mine – were sparkling in laughter of a joke that had long since passed. The picture had been taken when he had turned thirteen. I knew that much at least. However Blake's picture was not the only one that I held gingerly in my hands. My own face stared back at me, a smirk I often wore painting my expression. Next to me, and smiling broadly, was Aaron. His mousy brown hair was in disarray, and his hazel eyes were just as warm as I remembered them.

_Love that once hung on the wall_

_Used to mean something, but now it means nothing_

_The echoes are gone in the hall_

_But I still remember, the pain of December_

I breathed out, clutching the dog tags around my neck. The anniversary of Blake's death had passed. However today… today marked one year since Aaron's death. In the solitude of my room, I felt secure enough to release the tightly-held control I had over my feelings, and I knew that a profound look of sadness had descended on my face. _How had it been a year?_ Time had passed so fast; it almost didn't seem real to me. Still, I had never once mistaken any of this for a dream. No matter how many times I woke up, Aaron would be gone.

"Hey," I said hoarsely. "I'm sorry I haven't talked to you in a while. Been busy around here lately, hunting the Crimson Sun down. You remember what I told you about them. You'd be proud of me, Aaron – I'm trying to tone it down."

_I didn't start until Neb suggested it though_! I realized with a pang that caused me to shake slightly. Still, looking at the pictures of Aaron and Blake, I clenched my free fist, closing my eyes in pain. For so long everything had been about Blake and Aaron. All of my choices, all of my kills… it had all been for them. And now… now I realized that I was living more for them than for me.

_I'm breaking free from these memories_

_Gotta let it go, just let it go_

_I've said goodbye_

_Set it all on fire_

_Gotta let it go, just let it go_

Stifling back a choked sob, I pocketed both of their pictures, and slipped my helmet on. No one needed to know what I was going to do.

WhatI _had _to do.

Immediately I made sure replace the façade that I had been so careful to maintain. I was arrogant. I was strong. I was the peak of what a Freelancer could be. I was invincible. I passed several Freelancers in the hall, but none stopped me. A couple called out a greeting, though I returned them with nothing more than a nod. A soldier passed by me with a lighter on his belt, and I easily lifted it, ignoring the protest behind me as I continued to the observation room I knew so well. My secondary safe haven from the madness of the ship.

Luckily, it was empty. I expected Cal to be by later – he seemed to spend a lot of time here as well… but I'd be gone by then. I sighed, removing the pictures and holding them in my hand. Finally, I allowed a soft sob to escape, and I fell to my knees.

"I'm sorry," I cried softly to the pictures. "I'll never forget either of you, but I need to live for _me_."

Without hesitation, I flicked the lighter on, holding both pictures so that the flame would devour them. There was no need to keep them in my hands – I'd remember their faces. I would remember everything about them. They'd always stay with me.

_I've broken free from those memories_

_I've let it go, I've let it go_

_And two goodbyes led to this new life_

_Don't let me go, don't let me go_

The pictures finally were nothing but bits of ash and crinkled paper. And for what I hoped was the last time, I cried for Blake, and I cried for Aaron. Two people that I would never forget, whether or not the pain ever truly left.


	3. Winter Wonderland

**(A/N) Another one-shot, heading your way, written by the always sensational anna1795! Still looking for Agent Texas applications, but only for the remainder of this week, so if you're interested I'd head over to our forum and get a move on!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Winter Wonderland**

**Agent Virginia**

**Written by anna1795**

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"_When I was young I didn't understand, but now, I know, how absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird." _― Audrey Niffenegger, _The Time Traveler's Wife_

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_'This is the _LAST TIME_ that my sister gets sick…ever,'_ Virginia thought to herself, stepping out of their room and waving her hands around to cool them from handling a hot bowl of chicken soup. Even through the door, she could hear her sister's wheezing through a stuffy nose and clogged throat, but she couldn't go back inside now. She needed to sleep and get better soon, mostly because the Director wanted her going on missions soon and he'd get grumpy with Virginia if she didn't produce some sort of results.

Virginia took a tired look down at her watch and noticed that it was in the early hours of the morning. She just barely noticed the date. _January 17th._ Suddenly, her mind woke up for real. "Yes!" She pumped her fist into the air and started running towards the training room, her jade-coloured scarf flapping behind her in her excited dash. She paid no mind to the grunts that passed her and gave her odd looks, and she neatly dodged around Maine on his way to the dining room. Songs were playing in her head as she went, pulling a pair of gloves from her pocket and pulling them on as she ran through the door to the training room.

"F.I.L.S.S., can you activate simulation 117?" she asked sweetly, bouncing back and forth on her heels like a child asking for a cookie.

"Yes, of course, Agent Virginia. You seem to be in a good mood today," the ship's A.I remarked.

"Today's just a good day," Virginia smiled at the computer screen and answered, entering the "Danger Room". Instead of white walls and floors, she looked out on a snowy meadow, surrounded by a few aspen trees and small, rolling hills. With a youthful innocence that she barely let anyone see, she giggled and closed the door behind her, rolling down a hill and covering her thin jacket and untied hair in snowflakes. The "sky" was grey and small flecks of snow danced down onto the ground. She sat up and saw one land on the end of her nose, where it melted into a cool drop of water. She crossed her eyes to see the quivering droplet and chuckled, shaking it off her nose with a twitch and standing up again.

With quiet purpose, she picked up a handful of snow and began to form it into a decent sphere, then roll it along the ground. It picked up an almost endless amount of snow from the ground, making the ball grow larger and larger as it went along towards the centre of the meadow. When it was about half her size, Virginia let it stand alone, picked up another sphere of snow, and rolled that one in circles around the base. She picked it up at the end of its journey and set it atop the larger base, making sure that it was perfectly centred. One more handful of snow grew a bit larger in her hands until it was the size of a soccer ball, and she gently set it atop her plain masterpiece with careful tenderness.

"Now for the trimmings," she told herself, grabbing her satchel and resituating her slightly askew scarf. She pulled out a bag of small chocolate chip cookies, opened them up, and set two of them on the smallest ball of snow, forming a pair of variant brown eyes. Next came a box of liquorice pieces that were placed evenly apart in a soft smile. The third step was a long carrot that she gently set as the nose, making sure that it was secured in the centre of the snowman's face. Finally, she brushed off an old cap with marine camo colouring and a peeling stitched badge on the front reading 'ROGERS' in faded black thread. Puffing it out with her hand, she set it jauntily on the snowman's head, marvelling at the creation that was slightly taller than her. Kind cookie eyes stared down at her, and the sweet, liquorice open-mouth acted like it was giving her a greeting or a toothy smile from the snow.

Virginia slowly pulled her satchel off her shoulder and her scarf off from around her neck, letting them drop into the snow beside her. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the snowman's middle, burying her face into where a shoulder would be with a bright smile and watery eyes. Sometimes, she'd imagine that there'd be broad arms sweeping around her shoulders and returning the favour.

"Happy birthday, Dad," she whispered quietly to the snowman, as the snow continued to fall around them.


	4. Your Cranium, From Orbit

**(A/N) Hey guys, time for another one-shot, this time written by Warg, yet again! A bit of bizarre yet brilliant awesomeness for you all, to keep you going til the next, slightly delayed, Phase Two: Betrayal update!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Your Cranium, From Orbit**

**The Director**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

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"_Bein' a soldier is not hard. If it was, soldiers would not be able to do it." _― Terry Pratchett, _Monstrous Regiment_

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"No." Captain Scaramouche crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed at the man on the other end of the conference call. "Sgt Jenkins is the best technician this unit's ever had. He's inventive enough to upgrade our equipment with spare parts he's found in alien wastelands, can hold his own in a firefight, and insures that we are never out of high-payload explosives."

"I thought you were trying to discourage me from recruiting him," the bespectacled spook countered mildly, hands still folded behind his back. This "Project Freelancer" was not officially associated with any particular military branch and the pale, dark-haired man had been introduced by the appellation of "doctor" rather than any military rank - Director didn't count when Scaramouche had never heard any clear results from the thing he was directing - but everything about him screamed ONI. Scaramouche wasn't against intelligence, per se, just against intelligence being used against his squad.

"I'm letting you know why I can't give up my supply sergeant," Scaramouche insisted. "Without him, several of my men would be smoking craters in the ground."

Count on the one he would like to end up as a crater to interrupt this would-be director without even showing so much courtesy as to put Dr Church in the blast radius. Scaramouche ducked the flying crude helmet and summary rain of twisted burning metal as Church's expression took on a predatory angle. "Like that, captain?"

"Now this is what man was put on this planet to do!" a gruff southwestern accent enthused as the short figure ran into pickup range of the camera and lifted the oversized blackened helmet from behind his captain's desk. "Build robots 'n' explosives! And explosive robots!"

The helmet simply repeated "error" across its viewscreen, the gears inside grinding at disturbing frequencies as Scaramouche glared at the intruder.

"As you can see, the men love him," the captain summarized dryly.

"Doin' your big job reference thing for Jenkins, are you?" the grunt in bright red observed, not taking the hint. "He'll be thrilled if he gets this transfer, y'know. Dang crazy grapefruit likes jumping outta planes."

"Why is this man an ODST?" Church asked the same question that had been going through Scaramouche's head for the past six years.

"Any chance to swoop down mercilessly upon my enemies!" The corporal, as usual, seemed to have no idea of when his feedback was unwanted. "If there's one thing better'n ludicrous gibs, it's a sharp boot to the face and then a shotgun in their temple! Gotta supply that personal touch when killing your foes, so they know that it's not just the faceless, thoughtless war machine grinding them into doom-fritters. It's a hateful, festering, connivin' war machine with a grudge that's been planning eighty-seven different ways to slice, dice, and Julianne-fry their individual doom for years, stayin' up late into the night, watchin' infomercials on the latest dooming gadgets... Quite a few of which have been delivered by our own Sgt Jenkins. You're gonna love workin' with him." Trust him to bring his shaky, unwieldy metaphor right back on exactly the wrong track.

"Who is this man, Captain Scaramouche?" Church inquired. If he had been listening past the whine of deeply abused servos and the rising whistle of his own temper, Scaramouche might have heard the creak of the good doctor's trap as the bait was set.

"Corporal Sargent S. Sarge," Scaramouche answered, restraining himself from adding "the pox upon the entire ODST program and the reason I jump from hell, to hell, with hell."

"S-Dog, to my friends," the corporal added.

"Hey, S-Dog, the cranial unit didn't end up in the captain's office while he was doin' his transfer paperwork, did it?" The golden EOD arm or peeking around Scaramouche's door evoked a sudden interest in his caller - the doctor still reacted like an ONI spook, but those dark brows lifted behind the lenses like a cryptozoologist at last offered a ripple on Loch Ness. "Of course it did." Jenkins's shoulders slumped. "Sorry about that, sirs. Won't happen again."

"I am certain that it will not, Sgt Jenkins," Dr Church was the essence of smug, unfeeling cheer, "for in return for your captain's agreement to my transfer request, I would like to offer a... promotion, of sorts, for Corporal Sarge, as well."

"You mean it?" Scaramouche asked. Sarge had descended into a more rambling acceptance speech.

"Of course. We have an army that we are building, an army that requires leadership and drive. Certain names are destined for greatness, are they not?" The Director smiled, or at least turned the corners of his mouth upward. It looked as if he'd forgotten how, even if Sarge and Jenkins sure hadn't.

"Better go pack, corporal. You've got one more plane ride," Scaramouche told him. For once, S-Dog actually obeyed. "Sim troopers get killed fairly frequently there, right?"

"Our training methods are designed to be nonlethal, captain," Church insisted. "At least as long as those involved demonstrate the proper minimum of skill. I trust that this shall not prove a problem for you, will it, Agent Georgia?"

His eyes had strayed to the technician who had been bouncing on his heels behind Scaramouche. "No, sir," the gold-armoured tech saluted him, Jenkins no more.


End file.
